


Act III. Scene V.

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captain John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drunken Confessions, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, John Loves Sherlock, John is a soldier, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is gone, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, no baby watson, seriously so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night before Shelock is sent off to Eastern Europe as punishment for shooting Magnussen, John makes a deal with Mycroft. Sherlock is to be released from his holding cell for one last night, and left at Baker St. to spend his last night with John. They will be alone, finally, with no Mary, no cases, and no interruptions, but eventually, all nights end. </p>
<p>What would you do if you had only one night to spend with the love of your life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, I'm back! 
> 
> Originally, I was going o call this The Cinderlla Deal, but after some consideration, and my blatant love for Shakespeare, I decided with a different title. I actually hate Romeo and Juliet, but I liked the title. For those who are not familiar with Act III Scene V of the play, the opening is of Juliet begging Romeo not to leave for his banishment after their night together, but he claims he 'must be gone and live, or stay and die." So, there's that. I just thought it would be cute. 
> 
> Anyhow, I'll be updating again soon, so, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Love you all!

No one had been prepared for the one man storm that ripped through the government building on December 26th, 2014 at two forty-five in the afternoon.

But, then again, no on in the world was ever prepared for the storm that was John Watson.

Not even Mycroft Holmes.

The man himself-short, but incredibly fit for a man at forty-came rampaging into the fancy government building with his jaw firmly locked and his cobalt colored eyes glinting in the light while heads turned and jaws fell open at his 'vengeful God' appearance as they would later describe it as. While dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, he didn't look very threatening, but, given his expression, he might as well had been dressed in his military fatigues and carrying a large firearm. He blatantly ignored any request that he go back or sign in or, God forbid, they told him he couldn't be there. The ex-soldier was on a mission, and Hell be damned if anything, or _anyone,_ got in his way.

John threw the door of Mycroft's office open with a loud bang, actually slightly pleased with himself when he saw the elder Holmes jump at the noise. He didn't give him time for a greeting before he slammed his hands down on Mycroft's desk and locked his flashing eyes on the man. _"Get. Him. Out."_ He snarled in the man's face, making sure to over-annunciate every word he spoke. He knew that Mycroft Holmes knew who he was talking about. Of course, it's hard to forget, even for a Holmes, that your baby brother is in a prison cell, awaiting the following day when he was to be shipped off to Eastern Europe on a suicide mission for shooting down a man who deserved to be shot.

The living embodiment of the British government sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, curling his fingers around the umbrella that he had by his desk. "Good afternoon to you as well, Dr. Watson." He replied.

"Don't. I'm not in the mood for your snide, sarcastic bullshit today, Mycroft."

"How charming." Mycroft answered with a strained, visibly annoyed smile.

John returned it with a smirk. "You're going to see how _really_ fucking charming I can be in two seconds if you don't stop." He pushed himself off of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "Get him out, Mycroft." He repeated himself, with less intensity than before.

The elder Holmes gave him a look that almost completely mimicked Sherlock's don't be an idiot look, although there was almost a sadness that almost seemed to linger behind the glare. "And how, pray-tell, do you expect me to do that, Dr. Watson?"

_"I don't know."_ John shot back, anger already boiling again at the almost apathetic quality to the other man's voice. "I don't fucking know, Mycroft, you're the goddamn British government, can't you _do something?"_

Mycroft's tough persona suddenly fell, and he stared John down for a nearly solid minute before letting out the breath he had been holding. "Behind closed doors, Dr. Watson, I can do anything I need to do to bend the laws to my will. But this, what my brother did..." He shook his head slowly, and dropped his gaze to the umbrella at his side. "I can't fix this. It's out of my hands."

John gritted his teeth. "But, you _know_ exactly what really happened in that estate, you _know_ that Magnussen was guilty of, how can-"

"Of course _I_ know that," Mycroft hissed back in response. "But, no one else believes it, because no one else ever saw Charles Magnussen as anything but an arrogant business man." He paused, visibly trying to relax. "Dr. Watson, if Sherlock had done this in the house itself, if he had killed him out of sight, I would be able to do more, but he didn't, and I _can't._ There is nothing I can do."

"But, he is your _brother."_ John protested angrily. He could feel his face getting red with how much he was yelling. "You're sending your own baby brother on a suicide mission, and you don't seem to have lost a night of sleep over it."

"Do not ever make the mistake of thinking that you are the only one who cares for my brother, Dr. Watson." Mycroft's voice became very grave after that, lower and hollow, but with a burning anger that resonated through the room and clawed at John's chest. The elder Holmes took a deep breath and he dropped his gaze again, settling it down on the hand that was spinning the umbrella on the ground. "I care for my brother more deeply than you believe, and certainly more than he does, but after years of bitter resentment for rash actions from both parties, it's come down to mutual agreements, continuous favors and a rather obnoxious display of disrespect, although it's all childish talk. Whatever you think of me, Dr. Watson, is perfectly fine, because your opinion of me is not something I seek, nor do I expect it to be very high, however, do not make the mistake of insinuating that my brother's well-being is not my top priority.

John's mouth had gone completely dry. "Then, why are you letting them send him away?" He challenged, his voice completely hoarse.

Mycroft laughed humorlessly. "If I could stop them, I would. The irrevocability of this situation has impacted me more than you can possibly perceive." He tapped the umbrella against the floor with more force than necessary, and looked away so that John wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. "If he had waited, if he had done it inside the house, I would have been able to... If he had only done it _out of sight,_ I would be able to fix this, but he had to do it in front of my whole team, and... I can't get him out of this, Dr. Watson. Not this time." His voice trailed off, haunted and hallow, and for the moment, he seemed like a broken child.

_I can't get him out of this, Dr. Watson. Not this time._

The doctor clinched his fists at his side, breathing in and out with great difficulty as an all-too-familiar tingling started in his fingertips, and worked its' way up his arms.

_I can't get him out of this, Dr. Watson. Not this time._

Suddenly, John couldn't take anymore. With a mighty, thundering cry of rage, he threw everything off of Mycroft's desk onto the floor, then turned around and threw the lamp into the opposite wall, and continued to holler profanity while he destroyed more sections of the room and damned the entire world. Mycroft didn't flinch, not even when John put his fist through the drywall. When he collected himself finally, he stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, the only sound being the small droplets of blood from his knuckles as they fell to the floor. "Did I do this to him?" He demanded weakly, his breaths becoming ragged.

"Not in the way you think." Mycroft answered honestly.

John's chest constricted, and he couldn't get the words to come out.

He heard the door open, and looked up as two men with suits and guns pointed their weapons right at his chest, but Mycroft must have waved them away, because as quickly as they arrived, they were gone, leaving the two men alone again, and Mycroft took a deep, exhausted sounding breath. "There was nothing you did, Dr. Watson, that _directly_ correlates with my brother's current situation. My brother's infatuation with you was what caused it. All that had to happen was a threat to your safety, and he would have done anything to protect you. Even if it meant he either sat behind prison bars with a sentence of twenty-five to life... Or something worse."

"Because of _my_ wife." John spat breathlessly, glaring murderously at the floor. "Because I didn't wait, and because I married a bloody assassin who shot him in the chest to save her own skin. He did what he did to protect me, and now I get to watch him die for a third time because I realized too late that I..." The words caught in his throat. _Not here._ He thought. _Not now._ He couldn't speak the words yet.

Of course, John Watson knew he had fallen hard for Sherlock Holmes, he had known for a long time, but the detective was gone by then, and John had to move on. Mary helped a little, her support and patience with him was more than he could ask for, but, no one could ever replace Sherlock. When the detective came back, he was so angry and so adamant about moving on that he locked all feelings away, and it wasn't until the wedding that he realized that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake. The look in Sherlock's eyes at the reception when he revealed Mary's pregnancy was what did it, then afterwards when he realized that Sherlock had left early...

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and he felt his knees give a little, causing him to have to grip the back of a chair to keep himself from falling down. "It's my fault. All of it." He whispered brokenly. "He could have been so great, he _was_ great, but he could have been _so much more._ I was the worst thing that-"

"John."

The word reverberated through the doctor's ears with a painful feeling of dark surprise. Mycroft never used his first name.

He looked up, and his stomach flipped at the sight of the government official's eyes that were now puffy and rimmed with red. His lips were pursed into a tight, thin line, and when he stared at John, he looked like he had aged fifty years. He locked his eyes with John's, and shook his head slowly. "You are without a doubt the single greatest thing that could have happened to my brother." He whispered gravely.

"How?"

Mycroft sighed, his voice already trembling. "You don't know what he was like before. You had the privilege of never seeing him back then, although, with your experience as a doctor, I'm sure you know what drug addiction does to a man." He paused like he didn't want to continue. "I don't know when it started exactly, but I can say that I know what fueled it. John, my brother is not kind to himself. He never has been. We were always highly intelligent as children, and the ego I had developed because of it led me to believe that he was an idiot, and of course, I found no issue in treating him as such. I had the privilege of being homeschooled until I was old enough to understand how to socialize with other children, though I found the process tedious." Mycroft hesitated. "Sherlock, on the other hand, did not have that privilege. He was thrown into the batch with other children, not one of which were very nice to him. He tried his best to be like them because he wanted friends, but it never ended well. Sherlock had only one friend as a child, but, we ended up having to put him down."

John swallowed hard. He vaguely knew about Sherlock's childhood dog, as he had found pictures of them in an old scrapbook that had been buried deep in a box of Sherlock's books, but the detective had shut down when John tried to ask about him. He never thought that it had been that bad.

"At the time, I had been a teenager and I thought that telling him 'caring is not an advantage' would make it better. I taught him that if he cared about someone, eventually the rubber band would snap, and it would hurt. He spent the next twenty years believing that the world was just simply not kind, and that it was pointless to care." Mycroft paused, and John felt his heart lurch when he realized that the man he had assumed lived up to the 'Iceman' nickname, was actually struggling to hold back tears. "University was where it got worse, I suppose."

John bit his lip. "What happened at uni?"

Mycroft laughed bitterly, and the hollow anger was back in his eyes once again. "I haven't a single clue, John. I wasn't as capable of finding things out back then as I am now, but, even if I were, I'm not sure I'd want to know. All I do know is that he went off to university just fine, and the next time I saw him, he had lost fifteen pounds and was addicted to cocaine. I tried to keep an eye on him, but he overdosed three times, and I was almost too late the last time. When he woke up in the hospital, he looked me dead in the eye and said 'you should have left me'." Mycroft's voice broke on the last sentence, and he looked away.

The wind was knocked out of John's chest. That was something he could have gone his whole life without knowing about his best friend, but, at the same time, he wanted to know. No matter how much it hurt. "And... And you don't know why?" He asked softly.

Mycroft shook his head. "I tried to make it better, but it wasn't until The Work that he finally started getting better. But, then you showed up, and it was like his entire world had sunlight for the first time, and I thought that it was finally over. I thought he was going to be okay. John, you made my brother so much better than he ever was, and I could never thank you enough for what you've done for him. You are the greatest thing that ever happened to him, and I believe in that more than anyone else does, because no one knows him better." His statement rang clear, and when he smiled at the doctor, he appeared more sincere than John had ever heard him.

But, it was still hard to believe him.

"But, he's going away because of me. Again. How can I be that good for him if he's-"

"John, he would have done it anyway." Mycroft interrupted, though it was kind. "A man in love will bleed himself dry for the one he loves, even if the love isn't requited."

The doctor paled, his fingers tightening around the chair to the point that his knuckles had turned white. "Sherlock doesn't... No, he couldn't he... He told me that he was married to his work." He argued, his voice raising with panic.

Mycroft gave him the 'it's obvious, you're just an idiot' look that mimicked his brother's once again. "But he didn't _know you_ then. You were just another person to him, then something happened, and... Well, you know the rest."

John's heart began to pound.

_Sherlock's in love with me._

_Sherlock's in love with me._

_And he doesn't think I love him._

Oh, how badly did he want to go back in time and tell Sherlock the truth and hold him so that he never got away from him again. He wanted to replace every bad memory, every bad feeling with something beautiful, to make sure Sherlock never felt alone and unloved again. He let out a trembling breath, one he didn't realize he was holding. "Why did he never... _God,_ I'm an idiot, I should have..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard against the lump that rose in his throat. "Mycroft, he can't go off tomorrow. He can't. His place is here in London, at Baker St., solving cases and destroying my jumpers with whatever experiments he's concocting at the time, not... Not off dying somewhere else. There has to be something we can do, anything, I don't care what, just... _Please,_ Mycroft. I can't lose him again." John pleaded helplessly with the elder Holmes brother. Tears were threatening to fall again, and he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from allowing them to do so.

Mycroft gazed up at him sadly. "There is maybe one thing I can do. But, only for tonight. Think of it as a Cinderella deal."

His heart skipped and he straightened up, closing in on the man. "What it is?" He demanded hopefully.

"I can have him removed from his cell for tonight, and have him brought back to Baker St. He'll be retrieved again tomorrow morning, but, you two will be able to spend his last night in London alone." He said softly. He caught John's eyes, and sighed. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but... That's all I can do. I am truly sorry, John. I never dreamt it would come to this. I... I'm sorry. At least this way, you'd be able to spend time with him before he left."

John's hands balled into fists as he thought it over.

One night. He could have one night with Sherlock, their _last_ night, but, a night all the same. They would be alone. They would be back at Baker St., alone until morning. The idea of being alone with Sherlock like that was a beautiful idea in his mind, and he would have normally jumped at the opportunity... But, it would be their last night. He would have one night to tell Sherlock everything he ever met to say, and maybe, they could pretend together that morning would never come.

But, it would.

He could spend his last night with Sherlock like a scene from a film, but come dawn, he would be gone again.

And John would be alone again. Left to mourn and grieve, all over again.

Would it be worth it?

John dropped his gaze to the floor, and gripped the sides of the desk tight enough that his bruised and swollen knuckles on his left hand began to scream in protest. He couldn't breathe. He choked back a sob, as he did not particularly want to break down in front of Mycroft, although the man had just watched him destroy his office and said nothing. "What would you do?" He demanding in a trembling voice. He looked up and locked eyes with the slightly blurry figure of Mycroft Holmes. "If you had only one night to spend with the love of your life, what would you do?"

Mycroft hesitated, and only stared at John for a moment. He seemed at a loss for words, but, eventually, he offered a soft, melancholy smile. "I would make sure they knew that even if the world is being torn apart at the seams, the only thing on my mind is them." The man replied with such gentle grace, as if he had rehearsed the words a hundred times. It was strange, hearing such things from a man like Mycroft Holmes, but they were the words that hurt like a slap to the face, only to act like a wake up call.

_Don't let things go unspoken on the last night. Speak the truth, even if it hurts, and pay no mind to the morning that comes. For once, don't be consulting detectives, don't be the genius and his flatmate. For once, just be John and Sherlock. For once, just_ be.

John didn't hold the man's gaze, but he nodded. "Thank you, Mycroft." He rasped.

"You don't have to thank me, John." He replied. "Be at Baker St. by six o'clock. I'll have him there by then."

The doctor nodded again, and turned on his heal to walk out, but stopped just short of opening the door, his hand on the handle. "Um... I'm sorry about the mess. I'll... I'll pay for damages." He said uncomfortably.

Mycroft let out a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, John. You just owe me a favor."

If he weren't so emotionally exhausted, John would have laughed. Instead, he smiled weakly, and nodded at the man, then exited the office, once again turning heads as he passed through the government building, although this time, he was the soft rain following the mighty storm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, about 2:15 in the morning where I am, so it's really early, but, I decided, fuck it, I'm going to update. Hopefully the last chapter will be up tomorrow, but I can't promise much, unfortunately. I have work, so, we'll see. 
> 
> Also, I want to apologize for my lack of an ability to write smut, it's just something I can't physically do, though I wish I could. So, apologies for that. 
> 
> I also want to thank everyone for all of the love I've gotten on this fic and the others I've written, I'm kind of going through a rough patch right now, and it's really hard to just DO STUFF, ya know? Even writing, which I love to do, though I might not be very good at it. So, just... Thank you all so much for everything, I know I'm awful at replying to comments, but every single one just always brightens my day, and I really, really love them all, because they make me think that I'm doing okay and that my shitty fluff is relatively good. It really does help me a lot. It makes me feel so great. So, thank you all for all of the love. I love you all too. I really, really do.
> 
> Anyway, enough sappy chick-flick bullshit. ONTO THE WORDS.

When six o'clock came around, John was a jittery mess. After leaving Mycroft's office, he had stopped and bought two bottles of Sherlock's favorite scotch, and headed to Baker St. to prepare. Mrs. Hudson already knew of the plan, she said that Mycroft had phoned her and told her everything in advance. For once, she didn't say much, she only patted John's arm and smiled, then went back to her sitting room.

The doctor was pacing the floor of 221B, walking back and forth around the living room, his heart pounding and his stomach turning in knots as he waited. His hands were sweating horribly, and he knew he probably looked like death, but, the only thing on his mind was Sherlock. But, when the sound of the door opening echoed through the flat, John almost fell over. He could Sherlock's gorgeous baritone grumbling to Mycroft as two sets of feet tromped up the seventeen steps to their front door. John stood still in the living room, his eyes locked on the door, and when it opened, his breath caught.

Sherlock wasn't looking at him at first, he was glaring back at his brother, but even then, he looked beautiful. "Why am I here, Mycroft?" He demanded. "Do I get to sleep in my own bed for one final night? If so, how generous." Then, he turned, and saw John, his jaw dropping to the floor. The keys dropped from his fingers to the floor, but they were forgotten in seconds. "John?" He gasped.

John stood still.

Mycroft, who was still leaning up against the doorway, nodded at John over his brother's shoulder. "You'll have no supervision tonight. I suggest you utilize your time. Goodnight, brother mine. Goodnight, John." And then he was gone, closing the door behind him as he left them completely alone.

The two men stood in silence for a long time after that, their eyes flashing from each other's faces to the floor or the wall, but eye contact was not something that seemed to be plausible.

It was Sherlock who spoke first, however, low and quiet, barely loud enough to be heard, even in the silent room. "What are you doing here?" He asked a little breathlessly.

John swallowed hard. "I... Wanted to see you." He replied simply, not wanting to go into detail.

The detective's face hardened as he studied his friend's body from head to toe. "You punched a wall today." He deduced, staring down at the white bandages covering John's hand.

He squeezed his hands, although there was still a dull pain in his hand. "It's... Nothing. I'm fine."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

"You want a drink?" John blurted out, not really sure why he asked so soon.

Much to his joy, however, Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose so. Thank you."

John smiled weakly, then quickly shuffled away from the detective while he removed his coat and scarf. The doctor retrieved the first bottle of scotch and two tumblers from the cabinet, and took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He _had_ to. This was a crucial moment, and he didn't want to spend it shaking and stuttering. He needed to remain calm. _Keep your cool, Watson. You can do this._ The voice in his head was oddly soothing. So, he exhaled deeply, most of the fear traveling out with the air, and poured the drinks.

Sherlock seemed a bit surprised when he realized that John had bought his favorite scotch. Surprised, and maybe a tad suspicious, but, he _(thankfully)_ said nothing. He thanked John, and they took their places in their chairs, the ones they had claimed long ago. It reminded John of his stag night, the two of them drinking while they sat in their respective chairs. Although, of course, last time, they were both completely plastered and playing dumb drinking games. Last time, they were smiling a lot more.

Last time, it was a happy occasion.

They sat in silence for a while, drinking their scotch and only speaking when they wanted the other to pass the bottle over for a refill. It was nothing like the last time, John realized a while after Sherlock had arrived. The last time, they were happy and giggling and lounging almost obscenely in their chairs, the feeling in the room light and possibly a bit more romantic than it should have been, though neither man minded. This time, the room was so tense, it would break the blade right off of a knife if someone tried to cut through it. This time, they were silent, and they both sat stiffly in their chairs, not looking at each other. It had become awkward quickly. Quicker than John would have hoped.

Throughout the silence, John fund himself continuously glancing around at the clocks in the room, and with every passing minute, he felt his heart skip. Already, an hour had almost passed since Sherlock arrived, and it had only been spent by them ignoring each other and drinking most of the bottle of scotch.

Sherlock noticed.

Which of course, made the doctor's nerves even worse.

Sherlock, of course, noticed that too.

Finally, as the minutes ticked by, Sherlock finally decided that he had had enough. He leaned forward in his chair, and made no secret of scrutinizing his best friend. "One of your knuckles is cracked." He noted, which was not at all what John expected out of his mouth.

John looked down at his slightly discolored, bandaged hand, and flexed it. "It doesn't hurt."

"As a doctor, I'd think that you would do something about it, as opposed to-"

"It's just a cracked knuckle, Sherlock. It's not exactly a life threatening injury, and certainly not the worst one I've ever had." John snipped, leaning back in his chair and dropping his gaze.

Sherlock blinked. "Why did you punch the wall?" He asked quietly.

The question lit a small fire under the irritation that sat at the bottom of John's chest. He wasn't an idiot, he knew when Sherlock was testing him, when he was manipulating him, and although it was never for personal gain, it was always about some experiment, but still, John knew. He knew it was childish to ignore the question, so he sighed. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Come on, give a dead man a break."

John visibly flinched. He knew the words had been meant as a joke, but God, they hurt. In the back of his mind, he knew that it was true. He quickly drained the rest of of his glass and poured another. He wasn't drunk enough for that yet. Not those types of thoughts. The thoughts that would creep up on him from the floorboards and the cracks in the woodwork in the dead of night, and make him nauseous, and in term, make him want to drink more. The first time Sherlock left, John had almost sympathized with his sister. The drink didn't make it better, it just helped you feel something. He had been hitting the bottle pretty hard back then. Not that anyone blamed him.

"I punched a wall because I was angry, Sherlock. What do you want from me?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Some actual conversation!" He shot back. "I know what you're doing, John, you want to spend my last night here with-"

_"Don't."_ John hissed.

"Don't _what?"_

John shook his head. "I don't want to talk about tomorrow. I don't want to talk about what tonight is. I just don't." _I can't._ He added in his mind.

"Then, what _do_ you want to talk about, then, John?" Sherlock demanded, his tone already tired. "If there's something you want to say, you should say it now, because tomorrow is happening whether you like it or not, and if this is going to become an emotional night, I'd rather it just happen. I don't want to dance around this anymore. Enough walking on eggshells. So, if you have something that you want to say, for the love of God, _just say it."_

John Watson stared ahead of him, his eyes locked on his best friend's face. He didn't even have the energy to be hurt, or even irritated by the detective's words. He didn't have a single clue as to what to say to Sherlock at that point. _I want to tell you the truth._ He thought, the words getting stuck in his throat. _I want to tell you that I love you, but what good what it do?_ He remained silent.

Sherlock sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "John... I'm sorry. Forgive me." He whispered, avoiding eye contact.

"There's nothing to forgive." John replied.

The detective didn't seem to have anything to say about that.

Finally, for the second time that day, John Watson couldn't take it anymore. Tears welled up behind his eyes, and he slammed the glass down on the table. "Why did you do it, Sherlock?" He demanded, although he didn't really want an answer. "You knew. You knew about Magnussen. Maybe not completely, but in the back of your mind, you had an idea. You wouldn't have had me bring my gun if you didn't suspect something was off. Why would you... How could you do that? How could you give everything up, _again?"_

"There are worse things than losing The Work." Sherlock said, his answer sending an awful chill down John's back. "John, you know what he was. He was no man, he was a leech. He was worse than James Moriarty in every way. I thought, at first, I was one up on him, but in reality, I was nothing more than a bug under his microscope. If he had been allowed to continue, God knows what he would have done. I would have done anything to keep him away from you, especially after the fire." The detective looked away, and focussed his attention on the alcohol in his glass.

John, however, couldn't look away. "You did it because trying to protect me." He summed up.

Sherlock nodded. "You are... Irreplaceable. The Work was only temporary, I knew that, but it was only a distraction. I would not wish to continue, should anything happen to you. No matter the cost."

"But, this is your _life,_ Sherlock!" John shot back, his voice echoing off of the walls. "This isn't just The Work, this is your life! You're going over there, and you're going to get yourself killed!"

The detective laughed bitterly. "Transport, John. That's all it is." He whispered, getting to his feet. "I'm made of disposable things." Then, he turned his back, and walked into the kitchen, leaving John in his chair, jaw on the ground.

John stared after him, his anger building up underneath his skin as he dug his fingernails into the chair. His mouth closed with an audible click, and suddenly, he was gritting his teeth. It was like someone placed a sheet in front of his eyes, and all he could see was red. He could see Sherlock, his back to the doctor, opening up the next bottle of scotch, and then, in one swift movement, he was out of the chair and storming across the floor, eyes fixed on Sherlock like he were prey. He took the detective by his shoulder and spun him around, slamming his slender body into the cabinets, causing him to drop the bottle of whiskey on the floor, making it shatter, but the mess was quickly forgotten.

"John!" Sherlock squeaked, obviously startled by how close his best friend was.

"You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes," John snarled, his hand gripping the detective's collar tightly in his fist as he held him up against the woodwork. He was absolutely fuming, and it didn't even register in his mind how scared and how small Sherlock looked in that moment, so he tightened his grip. "You are _not_ disposable. You don't get to say that. Never. If those words ever come out of your mouth again, I will break your jaw." The threat rolled off of his tongue with ease.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Well, what do you want me to say, John? That I made the mistake of falling in love with my best friend, one I couldn't protect because I was too stupid to see what Magnussen was playing at?"

The soldier didn't move.

_So, it is true._

Part of him was ecstatic.

Part of him was still angry.

The rest of him hurt under the weight of the words.

As quickly as the confession slipped out, Sherlock's hand clamped down over top of his mouth, and he tried to back away from John, although he had nowhere to go except further back into the counter. He and John stared at each other for a moment, and the longer the time went on, the more fearful the detective's eyes became. "I'm sorry." He whispered, his words muffled by his hand. "I shouldn't have said that."

John's lips twitched up into a smile, and he reached out, curling his fingers very lightly around Sherlock's wrist. Slowly, he pulled the hand away, and before Sherlock even got a chance to speak, he crushed his lips to Sherlock's, loving the tiny squeak of surprise that the detective made. John pulled him closer, and, as if it were instinct, Sherlock's arms wound themselves around his neck, just as John's went to hold him around his waist.

Kissing Sherlock was more perfect than John could have ever conceived. The lights were dim, the taste of alcohol staining the other's breath as their hands found each other in the moment. It was like something out of a film. It was perfect. It was absolutely _perfect._ In the moment, he lost all of the words he ever learned, and decided that kissing Sherlock was as amazing and unique as a word he could never, ever think of in a million years. There probably wasn't a word for it. Something so beautiful should never have a word.

He wanted more.

But, just as he tried to deepen the kiss, Sherlock pulled away from him, gasping for air. His face was red, as were his lips, and John thought it was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen. He smiled, and leaned in to kiss him again, but, Sherlock shoved him away and took off running toward his bedroom, slamming the door and leaving John standing by himself in the kitchen, winded and confused.

_What the hell just happened?_

_That wasn't supposed to happen._

Sherlock had pushed him away.

He kissed him back (quite well, too), then pushed him away, and ran into his room like a scared little kid.

_Maybe he is. Remember what Mycroft said._

"Fuck." John whispered.

_Go make this right, Watson. Go talk to him._

He took a few minutes to compose himself, then slowly made his way toward the detective's bedroom. There was no noise coming from, which probably meant that Sherlock had already buried his face in a pillow, which he always did when he was upset and didn't want to talk. John sighed, then knocked on the door, softly, as not to startle him. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

No reply.

"May I come in, please? I want to talk to you."

Once again, no reply.

Which normally meant yes.

John opened the bedroom door slowly, and took a look inside, surprised to see Sherlock sitting upright on the bed, knees brought up to his chest, and clutching a pillow to his stomach as he stared down at a spot on the sheets. His face was dead white, his eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights, scared and unfocused. The sight was confusing, but, the doctor still felt bad. He crossed the room and sat down on the bed in front of the detective, watching him carefully.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" He asked, placing his hand on the other man's thigh.

Sherlock blanched. "You can't do that." He hissed, his voice raising hysterically in pitch.

John, alarmed, pulled away. "Do what?"

_"That!_ All of this! We can't do this!" He shot back, his grip on the pillow tightening.

"Why not?"

_"Because,_ John, you're married!" Sherlock snapped, glaring down at the spot on the bed. "You're married, we can't just... Mary is your wife, and if she found out, she would never forgive you, and she would never let you see your child, and you would be alone, and.." The words came out so fast that the detective was practically hyperventilating when he finally finished. He clutched the pillow tighter to his chest as he continued to try to stutter out the rest of his sentence.

"Sherlock, I need you to _breathe."_ John ordered gently.

He shook his head. "I can't, John, don't you get it? We just-"

"Sherlock Holmes, shut the fuck up for a minute."

The detective went silent, but John could see him biting the inside of his lip.

John sighed, and took Sherlock's hands, not able to look in his eyes yet. He had more than a love confession on his mind, but, he didn't exactly want to say the rest. But, he had nothing to lose. He took a deep breath. "I'm leaving Mary."

Sherlock's expression went from confused to horrified very quickly. "I... But, John... The baby..."

"There is no baby, Sherlock." John's voice became quiet. He felt the sinking pain in his stomach again as he brought up the days earlier events. He shook his head in disgust. "She was faking it."

He looked appalled. "N-no, no, she couldn't have been, that's impossible!"

John shook his head. "She thought that a wedding would keep me away from you, but when she realized that not even death itself could, she went to more... Drastic measures. She knew you'd take the bait, all she had to do is fake the signs. It only got easier after she shot you, because she was able to get away with the fake weight gain while I was here taking care of you. She told me today when I got back from seeing your brother. I told her I already knew."

"Did you?"

"I had an idea."

Sherlock hesitated. He was obviously trying to comprehend what he had just heard, as he opened and closed his mouth several times in an attempt to speak. "John, you... I... I'm so sorry." He whispered.

John let out a bitter laugh. "Why are you sorry?"

"B-because she was your wife, a-and then the baby and... I mean, didn't you love her?"

He nodded, but he could feel his jaw locking. Sherlock still didn't understand. "I did, but... Because of not so recent events, I reconsidered." He answered.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You mean when she shot me?"

"The moment she pulled the trigger, she was no longer my wife."

"But then, why did you-"

"I forgave her because you told me to, Sherlock. Not because I wanted to. But, I can honestly say, I didn't forgive her. But, now she's gone, and it's over. For good."

Sherlock bit at his lip. He suddenly looked so guilty that it nearly broke John's heart in two. "John, I... I'm so sorry, I never meant..."

The doctor smiled sadly. "It doesn't matter now." He ran his thumbs over the backs of Sherlock's shaking fingers, resisting the urge to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles. "The point is, you're not the only one who fell in love with his best friend, and, if you want me, I'm yours."

There it was.

All out in the open for everyone to see.

And oh, did it feel good.

Sherlock's eyes softened, the soft cerulean color was vibrant and misty, filling with all of the tears he had been holding in all night. "Do you really love me, John?" He whispered, his voice quieter and more childlike than he had ever heard before. He sounded nervous and excited, and hopeful and potentially more terrified than he ever was facing a deadly criminal. It didn't take John too long to realize that Sherlock had never done anything like this before. It was like Sherlock wanted so badly to believe that John loved him just as much as he loved John, but he couldn't allow himself to think so.

_My brother is not kind to himself. He never has been._

_He looked me dead in the eye and said 'you should have left me'._

_I taught him that if he cared about someone, eventually the rubber band would snap, and it would hurt. He spent the next twenty years believing that the world was just simply not kind, and that it was pointless to care._

Sherlock was afraid.

He wanted to believe it, but he couldn't.

John gave him the biggest smile he could manage, the one that he knew touched his eyes and melted hearts. He pulled Sherlock in for another kiss, one that, this time, he allowed himself to enjoy. In all of the years he had spent wondering what it would be like to kiss those lips, he _never_ imagined it would be so perfect. He still tasted like scotch, but, his mouth was sweet and inviting, and John Watson decided in that moment to never kiss another person in his life. Not while Sherlock was reaching for him and gripping his collar like John would disappear if he let go. His heart was pounding, and when he finally pulled away, he kept his hand on the detective's cheek, his thumb very gently stroking the almost perfect cheekbones. "Yes." He breathed. "Yes, Sherlock, I do. God, I love you. Please believe me."

The detective's gaze dropped for a moment, but when he looked up again, there were tears streaking down his cheeks. "John, I... I don't want to do this anymore. I can't leave tomorrow. I thought I'd be able to handle it, I thought I'd be able to leave, but I can't, not now." His shaking hands suddenly pulled John down onto the bed with him, just so he could bury his face in the doctor's shoulders. "I want to stay here. I don't want to leave. I can't-"

"Sherlock, shhhh..." John silenced him with a kiss, then pushed him away just far enough so that he could look into the man's eyes. "You're breathing way too fast, sweetheart. Just stop. Now, I need you to listen to me for a minute. Can you do that?"

There was a pause, but eventually, Sherlock nodded. His breathing was slowing down, which was a sign that he was focussing on John. _Good. As long as it stays that way._ He thought.

John took a deep breath. "I want you to forget everything. Just push it out of your mind. I want you to forget about tomorrow, I want you to forget about Mary, I want you to forget about Magnussen, and I just want you to be with me for the night. Tomorrow is still a long way away. I just want you to be with me for tonight. Do you remember what you said to me that night you came back? You said it was just you and me against the world. I want that tonight. So, I want you to forget everything for just tonight, and I just want to be with you. _My_ Sherlock. The one who blows up my things and keeps heads in the freezer and is so beautifully and breathtakingly brilliant some times that I can hardly believe he's real. The Sherlock I fell in love with." He barely noticed that his voice was breaking.

Sherlock laughed at the last comment, like he thought John were ridiculous for being in love with such a ridiculous man. But, for the first time that night, his eyes were shining and he was smiling, and he looked alive for the first time that night.

The moment was so perfect, John almost didn't dare to kiss him, out of fear he would ruin it.

But, he did anyway.

And just like before, his breath was stolen right from his lungs.

Soon, the two men were tumbling back onto the bed while hands roamed and limbs tangled and tugged at clothing in near breathless desperation. When the layers were finally shed, they were all thrown gracelessly to the floor while the air in the room became heavy and warm and skin became flushed under even the softest touch. John marveled at how gorgeous Sherlock looked in the darkness of the room, with his skin a striking milky white, and somehow, in the mix of whispers and sighs, he even said this out loud.

Each sensation was new. Every caress, every soft, breathy noise, every touch... _If this is what real love is supposed to feel like,_ John thought to himself, just as he felt Sherlock's grip tighten on his bicep and a whispered string of pleas spilled from his lips, _then I have been doing it all wrong._

Leading up to the moment that they had both been waiting for for so many years, he must have asked Sherlock a dozen times if he was sure he was ready, and each time, he either received a breathless, murmured 'yes', or a whimpered plea against his neck where Sherlock had his face buried to muffle the sounds. It was enough for John, but _God,_ did he love hearing it.

The noise that Sherlock made, a mix of pain, pleasure and just pure, desperate adoration was almost enough for John, and he spent a few seconds brushing at the wetness trailing down Sherlock's face, and while his lover fought back a near-sob, he kissed him with all of the power he had. "I've got you, sweetheart, it's alright, I've got you." He whispered over and over and over, his own throat tightening from the absolute elysian state of the man underneath him.

John had been looking for redamancy, and now that he had it, he could hardly believe it.

Sherlock was finally his. Heart and soul.

And when the night came to a close, and the psithurium outside was all that could be heard, John pulled Sherlock to his chest, stroking at the scar lines that covered his back as he pressed soft, loving kisses to every piece of skin he could reach. When Sherlock murmured _I love you,_ John said it back, and his heart fluttered in his chest.

He decided then, as _his_ Sherlock succumbed to sleep on his chest, that would never, _ever_ leave this man ever again. He would find a way.

John Watson finally made his vow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, well, here's the last chapter! I left it pretty open, so there just might be a sequel! I'm sorry it's so late though, I got caught up in things. 
> 
> But, anyway, I don't know exactly what I'm going to post next, but. I was thinking possibly some more ballet!lock? Maybe? 
> 
> I love you all! I hope you enjoy!

Just as the grey sunlight of the raising dawn broke out through the small cracks of the curtains and lay their imprint on the tangled mess of sheets, John Watson began to stir. He opened his eyes, blinking a few times to erase the traces of sleep, then felt a smile fall across his lips as he realized then just where he was. He turned his head, and chuckled quietly at the sight next to him.

Sherlock Holmes, with his curls disheveled and his long limbs sprawled out so carelessly, was lying nestled into the pillow right next to John, not exactly on top of him, but more or less burrowed into him with the sheets as his cave. His breathing was quiet and even, and occasionally, he would sigh, and John's heart would melt. It was probably the most adorable thing John had ever seen.

Carefully, he moved himself closer and wrapped his arms around the detective's body, and pulled him to his chest, tucking the curly mop under his head. Touching hims was still amazing.

From under him, there was a low, but sleepy sounding giggle, and John smiled to himself. "What's so funny?" He whispered.

"I was going to yell at you for waking me up, but this is perfectly alright." The voice replied, rasped and heavy with sleep, but still just as playful.

"Berk." John retorted with a laugh.

Sherlock untangled himself from John's embrace, and pushed himself up just enough so that he could look his partner in the eye. He smiled shyly at John, a faint, rosy blush appeared on his cheeks. "Good morning."

"Good morning." John leaned over to kiss him, and took a moment to linger and run his fingers through the mess of dark, silky curls. Even when he pulled away, his hand remained there. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. "You look happy." He commented, pretending to be oblivious.

The detective's blush grew darker, but he allowed himself to laugh. "I'd be very surprised if I looked anything but. I finally got Three Continents Watson in my bed. I think that's a _very_ good achievement."

John cringed at the old nickname. "Oh, God, please tell me you didn't hear that name from Pete." He grumbled, thinking back to the time he and Sherlock met up with some of John's old army buddies. Pete had spent the night telling Sherlock old war stories about John, and for the most part, they were all the ones that made him look good and strong and everything Sherlock wanted in an assistant. Then, as the night progressed and the number of drinks consumed became larger, the more... _Sensitive_ stories of John came out, the ones about the women (and sometimes men) who were more or less lined up outside John's tent waiting for him to spare a few minutes to fuck them until they couldn't see straight. Sherlock had seemed intrigued. John couldn't have been more embarrassed.

"'Fraid so." Sherlock answered.he had to bite his lip to contain the giggles.

John let out a loud, near mortified groan, and tried not to feel like he wanted to crawl under a rock. "Can you at least tell me if I lived up to the expectations?" He only half joked.

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, yes. You don't have to worry about that, John. I catalogued you right."

"Catalogued me?" He asked, giving the detective a strange look.

The deep red blush returned to Sherlock's face, and he averted his eyes. "I um... Well, though you never brought them around much, I could always tell which girlfriends you had sex with, and I more or less deduced that, judging by how strong the smell of perfume on you when you came home, or the scratch lines on your back, you were, without exaggeration, an animal in bed. Even I thought the nickname was a bit ridiculous at first, but after a while, I could understand it. You're... Quite good at what you do." His voice trailed off, and it was easy to tell that he was thoroughly embarrassed.

John, however, felt a strange sense of flattery. "You deduced this early on, then?" He said. It had been a long time since John brought girlfriends over.

"It wasn't hard."

The soldier decided he wasn't letting this go without a fight. He allowed a dangerously wolffish smirk to appear on his lips, and he pushed himself up on one elbow so that he could look down at his partner. "So... You thought about this a lot, then? How good I would be in bed?"

Sherlock's eyes were blown wide, and he seemed to squirm under his partner's gaze, like he wanted to run away, but he couldn't move. "Sometimes." He whispered.

"How often?"

"I..." Sherlock paused, and swallowed hard. John was loving every moment of this. "I will not say that I openly thought about it as _just_ a deduction about you, though I would have never admitted to that before the events of last night. You know I'm a man of science and reason, and you know that I do not indulge in sexual relationships with _anyone._ I haven't actually done anything like this since uni. I never wished to enter any sort of relationship with anybody, though you sort of blew that out of the water rather quickly. I don't often daydream, or fantasize, nor do I openly lust after anyone, but, I can say, with complete confidence, that the idea of you more or less fucking me into the mattress was not at all an unpleasant idea."

John didn't know whether to be amused or aroused. Instead, he only laughed, and leaned down to kiss the red-faced detective that he adored. "You are probably the most adorable thing I have ever met." He whispered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but continued to allow John to kiss him, fully understanding that the soldier had every intent to live up to his reputation once again.

Then, like an ugly wake up call, John's phone began to ring from the pocket of his jeans that were still on the floor.

There was a pause, then, the doctor sighed, and pulled away. Sherlock seemed to already know who it was, and turned to bury his face in the pillows, pushing out the world. John felt his heart wrench at the sight. He had brought him open and made him happy, and now, he was back in his shell.

But, he couldn't exactly blame him.

John reached down and pulled his phone out, only briefly glancing at the number before answering. "Hello, Mycroft." He greeted flatly.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson." The tired, dull voice on the other line responded, sparing him the usual fake cheerfulness he often had. "How was your night?"

The doctor glanced back at Sherlock, who had burrowed himself in the blankets to hide. "Fine." He didn't feel the need to go into detail.

"Good." Mycroft paused, then cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'll be around in an hour. I just thought I'd let you know."

John's heart clinched. He had to take a few breaths to calm himself before answering. "We'll be ready."

"I do apologize for this, John. I wish I didn't have to-"

"I know, Mycroft." He replied, his voice tight. He knew he couldn't be angry at the elder Holmes brother. It wasn't his fault after all.

There was a brief moment of hesitation. "I'll see you soon."

John didn't even have it in him to say goodbye.

He threw the phone back down onto the pile of clothing, and passed a hand down over his face. He suddenly felt exhausted. Carefully, he turned back over onto his side and put his arm around Sherlock's body, holding him tightly. "Hey. Come here. Don't hide." He whispered, trying to keep his voice light.

"When is Mycroft coming?" Sherlock demanded, his voice muffled by the pillow.

John sighed, but didn't pull away. "An hour."

Sherlock's body went rigid. He tried to bury his face even deeper in the pillows. "He can't." He rasped. "I don't want to leave, John."

"I know, I know." John tightened his grip around his shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to his partner's temple. "But, we still have some time, love, don't think of it like that."

"How can I _not,_ John?" Sherlock mumbled, though it very much resembled a growl. "I have one hour with you before I have to leave, and I-"

"Sherlock, do you remember the Jenkins case? The cult that did an apparent group suicide, which turned out to be a staged murder by the father of the cult leader?"

The mention of the case was enough to make Sherlock stop, but he was obviously confused as to why it mattered. The case itself had taken them a week to finish, and it was incredibly trying, but all around one of the best cases they have ever worked together. Well, up until the very end where John got caught up in the killer's maze of underground piping, and the killer decided to blow up the building. John had been fine, walking away with only minor scrapes and bruises, thanks to the panic room that he had found, but Sherlock had been on the outside when the building went up. He had watched the explosion, and it took six of Lestrade's officers to hold him back so that he didn't run into the blaze to find John.

It hadn't taken long for John to get out, and when he finally found Sherlock, who had caught the killer in the cult's old hide out, he took it upon himself to put a bullet through the bastard's temple when he put a knife to Sherlock's throat. The detective had nearly lost his mind when John showed up, and after he was scanned multiple times for injuries by Sherlock's near frantic gaze, he was pulled into a tight hug that lasted until the Yard showed up nearly thirty minutes later.

They never spoke about that moment they shared, but, there was one in the living room of 221B that occurred almost three weeks later. Sherlock hadn't complained once about not having a case, and spent more time taking care of John and worrying over him like a mother hen than doing anything else. John finally confronted him about it, and after a few hours of coaxing, the detective finally admitted that he wanted to show John that he was a good friend. When John asked him why he felt that he needed to prove himself, Sherlock very quietly said that he didn't want John to leave because he made a mistake. John Watson had never before felt his heart ache like it had that day.

They hadn't talked about either event until that very moment.

Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow to stare back at his partner in confusion. "Of course I remember. Why?" He asked cautiously.

"Do you remember what I told you after the ridiculously long amount of time spent indoors?"

The detective bit at his lip, but remained silent.

John offered a smile, and reached up to run his fingers through his curls. "I told you that no matter what happened, no matter how angry I was at you, I would never, _ever_ be able to leave you for good because you, Sherlock Holmes, have made yourself irreplaceable." He paused, and pressed a kiss to the detective's nose, which made him smile. "That was true then, and it's just as true now. I don't care what happens, I'll find a way. That's _my_ vow, Sherlock, and I intend to keep it."

He had never spoken truer words.

Sherlock was quiet for a minute, then he shook his head. His eyes were bright with affection and adoration, all traces of the earlier anxiety gone. "I knew you would trouble, John Watson." He grumbled, though his voice was teasing and playful.

John let out a laugh, then leaned down to capture his partner's lips once again. He barely gave Sherlock two seconds to catch his breath before he was biting at the sweet spot on his neck. "I'll show you how much trouble I can be."

 _"John."_ Sherlock groaned before attempting to throw the doctor off of him.

But John Watson wasn't having any of that.

He hooked his arms around the detective's body (ignoring the cry of protest and surprise) and hauled him over so that Sherlock was now straddling his hips while John was flat on his back. He was pretty proud of himself that he could still do that. He continued to beam and run his hands up and down Sherlock's torso while his partner giggled like a teenager. "That's better." He snickered.

Sherlock shook his head. "I will admit, that was quite impressive."

"I told you."

"But, we only have an hour. I doubt we'll have time to do this and get cleaned up." The detective said almost regretfully.

John bit at the inside of his mouth. "Hmmm..." He took a minute to think it over, then he smiled. "Remember how you told me that you liked the idea of me fucking you into the mattress?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes." It sounded more like a question than an actual answer.

"What about up against a wall? How does that sound?"

It took less than a second for Sherlock's eyes to widen with excitement at the idea. He bit at his lip as he tried not to smile. "That... Is not entirely unpleasant either." He said in an attempt to sound modest.

John's grin only got bigger. "How about this. We're going to go get in the shower, and before we get cleaned up, I'm going to fuck you up against the wall until you scream. How about that?"

"How could I resist?" Sherlock all but growled as he leaned down to kiss John once again.

** ______________ **

It took them twice as long as usual to get dressed after their shower. The sex had been wonderful, of course, and John did make Sherlock scream, just as he promised, but once the afterglow went away and they were done cleaning each other up, they both fell silent. Neither of them dared look at the clock, out of fear that they would see what they didn't want. They both knew what was coming.

When the knock at the door finally came, they both froze. The magic of the night was gone. Back to reality.

Reluctantly, John opened the door, and in stepped Mycroft Holmes, looking exhausted and just as apologetic as he had the day before. He nodded at the two men in a firm greeting. "Good morning you two." He uttered under his breath. He sounded just as awful as he looked.

Sherlock swallowed hard and looked down at his feet. "Can I say goodbye?" He whispered painfully.

"Of course." Mycroft said, though he didn't leave.

John pulled Sherlock into a hug, wrapping his arms as tight as he could around his waist while Sherlock buried his face in his neck. He was a painful hug, one that he never wanted to end, and just before he tried to pull away, he heard Sherlock's breath hitch, and he felt his own heart shatter all over again. John gently pushed him away and gripped the sides of his face, using his thumbs to wipe away any tears that fell. "Hey, hey, hey, don't you start crying, you big idiot." He tried to joke.

It didn't work.

Sherlock looked up and caught his gaze, his eyes rimmed with red. "Will you be there to see me off? I... I don't want to be alone." He whispered, his voice weak and like he were begging.

"Of course I'll be there." John promised, his voice just as low. He pulled Sherlock down for a kiss, almost unwilling to let him go. But, when he did, he tried to smile, though it was more for his own benefit.

"I love you. Remember that."

"I love you too." The detective's voice shook.

The two men kissed once last time, then, Sherlock pulled away, keeping his gaze to the floor as he walked past his brother and joined Anthea in the hallway, who walked with him down the steps to the car outside.

It almost killed John to watch him go. It was like his chest was caving in.

"So, everything went well with you two, I take it." Mycroft said during the silence.

The doctor tried to smile, but he couldn't. "Yeah. I just... Wish I had done something sooner. Maybe I would have been able to stop this."

Mycroft Holmes tightened his grip on the umbrella at his side. "I am sorry about this, John. I wouldn't take him away if I didn't have to."

John shook his head. "It isn't your fault."

There was a pause, then Mycroft sighed, and took a step back out of the doorway. "I'll see you soon, then."

John nodded curtly, but didn't say a word.

Just as he began to pull away, the elder Holmes hesitated, then held up a hand. "I actually have something for you." He reached behind the door frame, and pulled out a large, black duffle bag. It looked full, but not heavy enough to make Mycroft strain to carry it. He held it out for the doctor, and gestured for him to take it.

John narrowed his eyes, but took the bag from him cautiously. "What is it?"

"The favor you owe me." Mycroft said. He then dipped his head, and turned to walk out the door. "I will see you soon, Dr. Watson." And then, he was gone.

The moment the door was closed, John took the mysterious black bag with him to his chair where he set it down and very carefully unzipped it. When he pulled back the fabric, a thin, white envelope with nothing more than his name was sitting on top. He pulled it out, but, just as he was going to open it, his heart skipped.

Underneath the envelope were three sets of army fatigues, as well as a black Secret Service uniform. In a small plastic bag, there were two set of dog tags with his name on them, identical to his own army tags that were in his storage case back at his old house. He didn't know what to think. He had no reason to have his army stuff, unless Mycroft was sending back to Afghanistan... _Oh, fuck._

With trembling hands, he dropped the uniforms and picked up the envelope. It wasn't sealed. There were two pieces of paper, but only one was an official letter with a government seal. John's heart was pounding so hard that he couldn't hear anything over the sound of the blood in his ears.

_Dear Captain Watson,_

_On behalf of the British government, and by the word of one,Mycroft Holmes, we are pleased to inform you that despite your discharge as a soldier in the British Army due to injury, you have been reconsidered for service, and you have been reinstated as both a Captain, and part of the RAMC. Due to this, you are to be deployed once again as soon as possible._

_You have also been assigned to a special operations mission in Eastern Europe, and you are to leave on the 27th of December, 2014. There will be a special plane to take you to your destination. The rest of your equipment will be given to you at the time of arrival, as well as further instruction. We thank you for your continuous service._

At the bottom, it was signed by one of Mycroft's assistants, and it was signed by the elder Holmes brother himself.

John allowed the letter to fall to the floor. He didn't know what to do. Mycroft was sending to Eastern Europe with Sherlock.

_It's the favor you owe me._

He was going to be with Sherlock.

Holding up the second piece of paper, he easily recognized Mycroft's scrawled, but almost elegant handwriting on the page.

_Take care of him like only you can. Good luck, Dr. Watson._

John suddenly couldn't breathe. His heart was beating too fast.

He was going with Sherlock.

He was keeping his vow.

The soldier smiled to himself, and pulled out one of the sets of fatigues. He quickly slipped them on over his body, quite pleased with himself that they still fit. The familiar clinking sound of the dog tags as they passed over his chest, only to rest comfortably on his chest was like a sound of home. He felt a familiar tingle in his finger tips as he slid the jacket over his arms, and the boots over his feet.

Captain John Watson stepped for the last time across the floor of 221B Baker St., and slid easily down the steps. Mrs. Hudson saw him for only a second and cried as she hugged him goodbye. 'Take care of each other,' She whispered in his ear. 'I want to see my boys again.' There was already a car waiting for him outside. On the drive there, he slipped out his phone and sent a quick text to Sherlock with a loving smile etched across his face.

_I'm on my way. I'll see you soon. I love you. -JW_


End file.
